


To Love You

by hisokun



Category: Hunter X Hunter, hxh
Genre: Angst, Detective Hisoka AU, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Timeline AU, ghost au, hisoillu, no more hisomachi this time lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisokun/pseuds/hisokun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They said that they'd find each other - no matter what body, what time, what universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cigarette Teeth had a lot of success when I wrote it, so I thought I'd write another hisoillu fic. This fic has very dark themes (but nothing dark like hisomachi), so just a warning before you go read. I know that I made the summary really brief, but . . .

Chapter One

 

October 2014

 

_7:35 p.m. – Akito University Library_

 

The night is not the only one watching him.

Chrollo Lucilfer has been staying inside the University Library for ten hours now. His fingers are hovering over the book spines like a hummingbird, the tips grazing over the tortured speckles binding the pages together. He’s been counting the amount of literature resting in the wrong place, like the works of Shakespeare, nesting in between the huge psychology books he’s always hated. Or the thrillers of Stephen King, found in the Math sector of the library.

He’s been gathering all those books together, tucking them against his chest like an unfound treasure. Now, he’s inserting every book in the right place, his body damp under the light of the moon like he’s the star she’s been missing. He slides The Night Circus out of his arms and pushes it in between Grimoire by James Champagne and The Magician’s Nephew by C.S. Lewis.

Chrollo looks down to find his arms empty, void of everything he’s caught in his teeth. He glances at the bookshelves lining up the library. The books are sinking beneath the vibrant smile of the moon, like she’s stealing the words one by one until she’s sure that Chrollo is alone.

The quiet song of the library is ruined when he hears a ring inside his pocket. He pulls his phone into his hand and stares at the message.

_From: Baka Hisoka_

_Message: I think I may be on to something, finally. It sounds a little crazy, though. I don’t think they’ll believe me_.

Chrollo places both hands on the phone this time, his lips unknowingly twitching into a smile.

_You’re always crazy._

Another message arrives right after Chrollo has sent his.

_From: Baka Hisoka_

_Message: And I’m always right_.

As one of the only people who actually understands the things Hisoka is always babbling about, Chrollo can’t help but agree. Hisoka is currently helping examining a crime scene in downtown Yorknew City, where a new case is being solved by the best investigation team in the local police area. Whenever that happens, Hisoka has no choice but to ditch his plans with Chrollo – and practically with everyone else.

“Hisoka,” he whispers, clutching his phone, “you know I don’t like loose promises.”

“Talking to yourself again?”

The man whirls around to find Machi, her shoulder leaning against the bookshelf adjacent to his. Her lips are pursed tight, but her eyes are smiling. She’s crossing her arms as she stares at him, waiting for an answer to exit his lips.

“I don’t like the silence,” he admits. Chrollo tips his chin up to the ceiling. He counts the spider webs caught in between the edges of the walls, hoping for them to fall. “So I talk to myself.”

Machi snorts. She pushes herself off the bookshelf and walks closer to Chrollo, her steps a silent hum on the library floor. “You like the silence,” she corrects. “What you don’t like is being left alone.”

Chrollo continues to stare before Machi finally reaches up to draw his chin down. His heart almost jumps to his mouth.

Her eyes are the soft color of the moon.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that’s true.”

 

~***~

 

_7:44 p.m. – Downtown Yorknew_

 

The first thing he says when he arrives at the crime scene is this: “This isn’t a suicide, it’s murder.”

Hisoka’s eyes are looming over the walls. Not a speck of blood is found on the paint, just dust and the occasional army of ants darting towards the holed edges of the room. Every piece of furniture has been set in place, and knowing the police, every single thing here has been left untouched to make sure the evidence doesn’t get tampered. The body of the man is lying facedown on the floor.

His jacket is sprawled on his body like a cape. His arms are outstretched to the sides. Blood is pooling the floors like a lake, and an ugly slot is plastered on the far side of his temple. Hisoka can smell something odd wafting from the dead body, but he doubts that the scent is coming from the man himself. It’s only been hours since the murder scene was reported.

“What do you mean it’s _murder_?” Akatsuki demands. He pulls his hands from his coat pockets to aggressively point at the body on the floor. “Just look at him! Look at this place! Does it look like some murder scene to you?”

Hisoka snaps on his gloves and glances at him for a brief moment. “You look like a murder scene to me.”

As he kneels down beside the body, Akatsuki finds himself speechless, the blood draining from his face in total fury. The man nearly lunges at him before Wing clamps a hand over his shoulder in comfort. Professor Wing has been the one inviting him to these kinds of investigations. He’s the only one who doesn’t look at Hisoka as an amateur.

“Relax, Akatsuki,” Professor Wings laughs. “Don’t let this affect you.”

Hisoka flashes Akatsuki a smile when the man fumes, his lips itching to snarl, the white of his fists wanting to stomp on Hisoka’s gut. When Professor Wing shoots him a sharp look, Hisoka finally ignores him.

He inspects the hole on the man’s head, measuring the size of the bullet and how strong its momentum was when it blasted through the victim’s temple. He asks the police for the evidence, and they offer him the Ziploc of the bullet they’ve collected. Next, he lays his finger on the coat, brushing over the fabric and checking the texture. Hisoka moves over to the soles of the man’s boots. He leans a little bit closer before the smell finally catches his nostrils.

When he’s done, he straightens himself up and finds himself staring at the man beside him. “You said that his neighbor found him dead just a few minutes prior.”

Professor Wing nods. “She saw him enter his apartment when she just got home shopping.”

“And he was alone.”

“Yes.”

“Was she drenched when you first saw her?”

The question clearly makes Professor Wing surprised. His brows knot together in confusion, his eyes blinking as he tries to recall the past events. “Well. No.”

“Any signs of being under the rain at all?”

“No.” Professor Wing scratches his head. “None at all. Why do you ask?”

Hisoka removes the gloves from his hands and throws them on the floor. He can still feel the sweat clinging on to his palms, but more than that: the clear scent of rain found on his fingertips, where they’ve been inspecting the man’s coat like a second skin.

“This man’s coat is wet, which is an obvious sign that he’s been outside, under the rain for about an hour.” Hisoka pulls his phone out from his pocket and checks the weather section, passing his phone over to Professor Wing for a further look. “We didn’t have a downfall in the city, but it seems that there has been one in the downtown.”

Akatsuki takes one look at Hisoka’s phone and scowls. “That isn’t enough evidence.”

“His boots smell of petrichor,” Hisoka points out. “Quite a strange thing to overlook. And finally, the bullet is a common 9mm, very inexpensive and also relatively small. Won’t be too heavy for a woman to carry in her pocket.”

As the realization dawns on him, Professor Wing looks at him as if he’s crazy. Both he and Akatsuki glance at each other in disbelief. “Wait, you’re not saying that the woman who reported this incident is the same one who killed him, do you?”

“Well.” Hisoka’s eyes are burning – golden, defiant, a challenge. “Why not?”

 

~***~

 

_8:14 p.m. – Natsu Ramen Shop_

 

“I think they’re going to fire me.”

Machi has been listening to Hisoka complain for the past fifteen minutes. They’re in the only ramen shop Machi can tolerate. Don’t get her wrong: she likes ramen; it’s the interior that irritates her. But this ramen shop has nice wooden dividers to separate the customers eating their meal. So even if Machi wants to shove her entire face into that big bowl, no one will judge her for her decisions. Just the man in front of her, pushing all her buttons until she has to grit her teeth in absolute annoyance.

She has her cheek pressed against the heel of her palm. She twiddles with her chopsticks before stabbing them into the bowl. “They can’t fire you,” Machi says, sighing. Her chopsticks hang tight to the long string of noodles. “It’s not even your job.”

“But what if I can’t work there anymore?” Hisoka counters. He drags a chopstick full of noodles into his mouth and swallows, narrowing his eyes in thought. “No, actually, you’re right. I’m too valuable to fire. I’m like Sherlock Holmes.”

At that, Machi laughs, her fingers losing her grip on the noodles she successfully gathered. “No, you’re Hisoka, and you’re an idiot.”

Hisoka reaches out to poke her nose with his chopsticks, getting it slightly damp in the process. He hovers around his bowl before he finally snatches a piece of shrimp. “So,” he says, glancing up at her, “what was Chrollo doing when I wasn’t around?”

The question makes Machi look up at him. Her fingers wobble slightly against her hold before she finally settles her chopsticks into the bowl. She curls her arms on the table, her eyes staring at the last piece of shrimp in her ramen before she looks at him. “Maybe you should take him into your investigations sometimes.”

Hisoka’s eyes burn into the pink of her flesh, making her question her sentence. “You know,” he says, “that he doesn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Yeah, but he can’t keep on staying in the library every time your plans are cancelled!”

Machi’s voice hardens, the lump in her throat turning into a fist. She knows that she should stop talking. She _needs_ to stop talking. But she can’t get rid of the face Chrollo made when she made him look at her – the way his lips were latching on to Hisoka’s absence, the way every inch of his being was still finding the fastest route to where Hisoka went.

“I was watching him rearrange the library like some sort of crazy person,” she says. “He didn’t even turn on the lights. Just walked around with his books. I almost thought he was a ghost.”

Hisoka’s golden eyes are dim under the fluorescent lights of the shop. He looks tired, weary. His voice is as raw as the sun when he speaks. “Then,” he whispers, “what do you think will happen if I ask him to come with me?”

Machi shakes her head. She reaches for her napkin and wipes it against her lips. “At least he’ll feel a little less lonely.”

 

~***~

 

_8:30 p.m. – Under a lamppost_

 

Chrollo is used to waiting in the cold.

He wraps his arms around himself, his body huddled underneath a thick coat until he can feel his breath warm inside his throat. The cold evening air wrenches to nip at his bare fingers. He curls them together and brings them to his lips, blowing a shuddering breath as his shoulders quiver from the unexpected ache.

He hasn’t been waiting for Hisoka for long. It’s only been ten minutes since Hisoka texted him to meet at the park, so that they could go home together to avoid the bite of the dark. But Chrollo doesn’t have a high tolerance to the cold, and Hisoka is the only person who makes him forget the shake of his skin, erasing his thoughts inch by inch.

Chrollo is about to curve himself forward when he feels something warm touch his cheek. He looks up to find Hisoka handing over a can of coffee, the glow of his eyes the color of heat. He slowly unwraps his fingers and accepts the can of coffee, heaving a breath when the steam sinks into his cold skin. Hisoka sits next to him and rests his arm against the back of the bench. Chrollo can feel it now – the height, his presence.

“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” Hisoka says. “But I bought you coffee, just in case.”

Chrollo fixes his finger under the tab and clicks it open. The smell is soothing. “Thank you.”

He takes a little sip, letting the drop trickle down his throat to calm the cold. He offers the can to Hisoka, but the man shakes his head. Instead, Hisoka’s hand moves away from the bench and flutters over Chrollo’s wrists, fitting their fingers together like a single wing. Chrollo’s heart is furling tight inside his chest, every beat the weight of atlas. His thoughts are flying into his teeth until he has to clamp his lips together to make sure he doesn’t say anything.

“What is this for?” he murmurs, staring at their fingers.

“If I ask you,” Hisoka says, his eyes focused on the sight in front of them – the sea curling open to kiss the moon’s bearing, “to come with me, would you hesitate?”

Chrollo swallows another inhale of coffee down his throat. “That depends on where you want to go.”

“Machi told me to bring you into my investigations.” Hisoka doesn’t blink, even when the sea suddenly makes a rumble from the distance. “So that you wouldn’t feel as lonely. Will you come with me, then?”

It takes him a moment to gather the pieces of Hisoka’s words. Chrollo feels his hold tighten against his own fingers, the usual blush of his knuckles turning into a pale crescent. He doesn’t know why Machi had the urge to actually tell Hisoka what he was feeling, or why she thought she had the right to share that small part of Chrollo’s secret.

All he knows is that he can’t follow the sun when he feels like he’s about to burn, because Hisoka won’t be able to recognize him when it’s over.

“No,” he finally says, unlinking his hand from Hisoka’s grip. “So, don’t ever ask me that again.”

 

~***~

 

_9:58 p.m. – Crime scene, in charge: Wing_

 

Wing wants to think that Hisoka has made a mistake. After all, it’s not uncommon for forensic students to assume that this certain evidence will lead to its conclusion. Still, there’s a nagging part inside of him that’s trying to tell him that Hisoka is correct. (Wing doesn’t want to admit it, but Hisoka is almost always correct, considering that the boy identified the kind of bullet just by its size, smell, and weight.)

But all the other investigators have evidence that doesn’t exactly coincide with the one Hisoka has in mind.

For one thing: Akatsuki proved that there was no sign of a struggle, because the apartment was perfectly arranged by the time they got there. The victim was a man, no less, so chances are, if he _were_ killed, the said woman would have a hard time decapitating the victim.

The second reason why is because Mako mentioned that the woman was in distress when they tried to interview her. In fact, she was so busy sobbing at that point that they decided to leave her be. Of course, the woman might have been a good actress, but what are the chances of that?

Hisoka’s question suddenly pops into his head, a bomb threat. _Well. Who not?_

Any regular forensic student would stick to the obvious evidence led by the crime scene, but his detectives couldn’t even recognize the scent of the aftermath of rain on the man’s boots, nor did they have the wits to check the texture of his coat. Wing even counterchecked the weather forecast, and Hisoka was right: the downtown area had a downpour before the woman reported the man dead.

So. Why not?

“Excuse me, sir.”

Wing turns to Ayano, his mouth dropping open to find the woman securely locked in between two policemen. Her wrists are cuffed together, and her cheeks are stained with tears and a dab of blood. Ayano pushes the evidence bag to Wing for inspection.

“These are five 9mm bullets – the same ones we found earlier on.” Ayano turns to her in discomfort. “We decided to roam inside her room, and we found these hidden in her medicine cabinet. Turns out, she was the victim’s personal maid before the man accused her of stealing. The court sent her to jail for five years.”

The woman struggles, trying to yank her arms away. “I lost my child because of him,” she sobs out. “Everything is his fault.”

Wing can’t stop staring at her, or the evidence bag, or the untouched body still lain on the floor. He can still envision Hisoka inspecting the man’s coat, the way he burst through the doors of the crime scene and announced his opinion. Akatsuki must be furious right now, for knowing that an “amateur detective” got another murder case right.

“Send her to the police station for further questioning,” Wing orders. He gives back the Ziploc bag. “It seems that we’re done here.”

 

~***~

 

_10:10 p.m. – Hisoka’s residence_

 

There aren’t enough nicotine patches.

Hisoka’s arms are practically full of them, but his thoughts won’t stop spinning, and he can’t distinguish the difference between heroin and a sleeping pill. At this point, every drug substance is the same damn thing: it’s the only way he can think, and at the same time, it’s the only way he can stop himself from thinking.

He hates himself for hoping that Chrollo will send him a text. He’s been messaging the man for a good hour ever since he left. There are even surrenders, such as an: _I’m sorry, I won’t do it again;_ or a: _Please talk to me. I’ll make it up to you;_ and the worst of all: _I’m wrong, and you’re right. So. Please. Please reply._

Which is why, when his phone finally gives off a ring, Hisoka’s body thrusts forward. His hand immediately clutches the phone and opens the message, a wave of disappointment pushing him back on the couch when he realizes that the text is from someone else.

_From: Professor Feathers_

_Message: you were right. we caught her._

Hisoka blinks at the screen. It might not have been from Chrollo, but it’s enough to make him feel slightly contented.

As he leans back against the armrest, his fingers brush over the nicotine patches, and he slowly peels them off one by one, until every writhing thought has died down.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 

November 2014

 

 

_10:12 a.m. – Akito University Library_

 

It’s rare for Chrollo to find Hisoka in the library. It’s not that the man doesn’t like reading books; he just has a wider collection of words in his head, so he doesn’t need a huge amount of novels or nonfiction to fill the blank spaces. But Chrollo hardly thinks that the man is here to study. Hisoka is looking at him, his golden eyes tracing the veins surfacing on Chrollo’s wrists, the petals of his knuckles clenching, and the swallow of his throat when he breathes.

Chrollo feels himself watching the same thing: the way Hisoka’s fingers are tapping on the table like he’s reciting a melody, the shape of his lips when his breath hitches, and his eyes – dancing from Chrollo’s neck to his hands, as if he has already made a route to his most favorite parts.

“Finally,” he whispers when Chrollo is already across from him, ready to take his usual seat near the open splay of the curtains.

Chrollo drags the chair backwards and settles down, planting his book in front of him like a barrier. He lifts the book to his face once he’s gotten comfortable. He can feel his heart lunging at his throat when Hisoka gently nudges him by the ankle. Ever since their talk in the park, they haven’t been able to look each other in the eye. They’re still speaking to each other, but it’s different now.

As if he doesn’t know the crevices of Hisoka’s name like a second skin. As if Hisoka has no idea about what Chrollo keeps in his teeth – his secrets, his novels, all the days he couldn’t bear to speak.

“You say that like you’ve been waiting long,” Chrollo says. His voice is hard, cracking at the edges.

“Four hours, eleven minutes, and fifty seconds, to be exact,” Hisoka replies. Chrollo sees Hisoka pushing a sealed cup of coffee towards him over the frayed pages of his novel. “I took a little bit of your coffee. It’s cold now.”

Chrollo doesn’t glance up at him after; he focuses his eyes on the words splayed across the page. His hands are steady on the edges of the book, careful not to spread it too wide in case the bindings come off. Slowly, he dabs his tongue a little on his fingertip and drags the page across the other side. It almost seems like two islands, one reaching for the other’s shore until both of them have come home.

He feels his hand trying to grab for the coffee cup within reach, but instead, Chrollo’s fingers attach themselves to Hisoka’s skin, clinging on to the warmth seeping in through Hisoka’s palms until each of their flesh is burning. Chrollo doesn’t move his hand away from Hisoka’s hold. He only sinks his fingers further into Hisoka’s wrists, touching the pulse kissing his fingertips.

Chrollo lowers the book so that he can look at Hisoka’s face. He sees the way the sun is dawning on Hisoka’s cheeks, the pull of his lips drawing Chrollo in. For a moment, Chrollo can only hear the quiet – the strum of the book pages fluttering, light breathing, sufficed touching of skin.

“Chrollo.” Hisoka’s voice is strained, pulled too tight.

He rests his book on the table and closes it, bringing Hisoka’s hand closer to his lips. This is what Hisoka would have done that night, this is what Hisoka would have planted on his knuckles. But Chrollo pulled away before the other could get too close.

Now, he is fixing the shake of Hisoka’s fingers, pressing his mouth into the bruises of his palms until every sullen mark is gone. When he’s done, he slowly lets Hisoka’s hand saunter down to the cover of his book, where a stream of sunlight is peeking in. He feels his stomach being embedded with heat.

“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he says, ducking his head in apology. “And thank you for the coffee as well.”

Hisoka swallows. “It’s not a problem.”

Chrollo reaches for the book again and opens to his current page. He feels Hisoka watching him, his eyes taking in every patch of skin. Chrollo gives his attention to the words to distract himself.

 _To Sherlock Holmes she is always_ the _woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was –_

“Are you reading Sherlock Holmes again?”

Chrollo glances up from what he’s reading and nods. His eyes trail the path of Hisoka’s shoulders, trying to remember how many times he’s already read the book.

“Forty-seven,” Hisoka provides for him. “You’ve read it forty-seven times.”

“You counted.”

“No,” Hisoka laughs. His finger brushes over the worn out pages, catching dust on his skin. Chrollo can feel the man’s mind brewing. “I observed.”

“You see,” he says softly, “but you don’t observe.” He closes his eyes, watching the right words form the remaining sentence before Hisoka interrupted him.

_He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen, but as a lover he would have placed himself in a false position. He never spoke of the softer passions, save with a gibe and a sneer. They were -_

“Are you going tomorrow night?”

Chrollo flutters his eyes open again. “Of course. You’ll be my partner for the event.”

Hisoka’s lips twitch into an amused smile. “Of course. No ditching.”

This time, Chrollo returns the small grin, the corners of his mouth curving. His hands are yearning for another butterfly touch over Hisoka’s skin, as if they want to remember the seconds, the minutes that they’ve gotten a taste of what they’ve been missing.

Chrollo leans back against his seat and lets the sun sink into his face. His eyes are a little sleepy, half closed.

He looks at the other boy, where half of the pieces are his own – and he answers, “No.”

 

~***~

 

_7:38 p.m. – Halloween Party; taken care of Phinks and Machi_

 

Everything seems to be in order.

The six packs of beers are lain across one picnic blanket, along with the other food brought by the Troupe: butterfingers the size of sausages; an assortment of waffles with different fillings, ranging from strawberry to vanilla ice cream to the finest chocolate; dried pickles for Phinks; soggy fries from the nearest fast food chain; and of course, Chrollo’s favorite, blueberry cream cheese cake.

Everyone in the Troupe is here, even Hisoka and Chrollo, who don’t usually attend to their beer meetings when they’re the only ones missing. Both of them are huddled together under a blanket, with Hisoka hesitantly chewing on a dry pickle Phinks has offered, and Chrollo watching silently in disgust as Hisoka forces it down.

Feitan is playing with the lighter, wearing his gloves to perform the fireball trick in front of Shalnark and Shizuku. Nobunaga is still applying the fillings to the few empty waffles left, handing them out to everyone who’s asking. Kortopi and Franklin are munching on the soggy fries, both of them the only people who actually enjoy eating it. Bonolenov and Pakunoda are giving out the slices of cake that Machi made, handing over an extra slice to Chrollo when the shares are being passed around.  

Candles are guarding their circle, the flames swaying against the eerie call of the wind. Machi wraps her arms around herself after chugging down a few drops of beer. The alcohol tickles her throat, almost as if each swallow is burning through her flesh. She feels another shiver pull through her body.

She’s about to drag a candle closer to her space when she suddenly feels something drop on her shoulders. Machi looks down to find a dark blue jacket fitting against her. It’s snugly resting on her body as she looks up to find the culprit. Her heart throttles like a comet when she sees Chrollo standing over her, the moon sitting on his neck until he finally sits next to her and snatches her bottle of beer.

“Are you going to drink it?”

“Maybe,” Chrollo muses. He shakes the bottle slightly. The alcohol sways inside like a ship. “I don’t know what’s so good with alcohol. I’m convinced that it tastes like piss.”

It’s not in the taste, Machi thinks. It’s the way it affects your hearing, your sight, the weight of your ribs. It’s knowing that you’ll never have him, no matter how hard you try to fit your name into his skin.

“Try it.”

He considers it. He tilts his head back, and – slowly, he presses the hole of the bottle to his open lips, a steady drib of alcohol slipping in between his teeth. Chrollo’s nose wrinkles a little at the taste and returns the drink. Machi watches the tiny bead dribble down his lips, heading towards his chin. Leaning closer, she catches the droplet with her mouth.

She remembers this: the stench of beer, evening laughter, and his cold skin.

But the touch earns a surprised tremble rooting into Chrollo’s throat, and a part of him that Machi never thought she’d be able to hold.

 

~***~

 

_8:23 p.m. – Halloween Party; ghost-searching_

 

They swore to the others that they wouldn’t return until they potentially see a ghost, but as Machi and Pakunoda carefully trot inside the haunted mansion, their lips begin to wobble. Their knees are quivering, losing the balance that they need in order to climb up the stairs. Their hands are sweaty as they link each other’s fingers together. Heavy breaths escape their lips as they take in the place.

Cobwebs are plastered to the edges of the room, as well as the covered furniture. Long stretches of sheets are laid on the cabinets and the bookshelves. Machi can see the slow decline of the sofa, still dressed in figments of dust and insects. Hoards of termites are eating away the cushions, lizards are crawling up the walls of the living room, and rats are running across the molds of the halls.

Machi senses the smell of decay through her nostrils. She can detect it as easily as perfume; she’s a medical student, specializing in postmortems and autopsies. The powerful stench of the dead makes her nose itch.

“It smells like corpses,” she grunts out.

Pakunoda raises an eyebrow in question. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Oh?” Machi ignores the tingle. “Maybe it’s just my nose, then.”

She rubs her nostrils as she looks up at the ceiling.

There is a chandelier hanging, the crystal orbs no longer glinting, even when the light of the moon strikes them from the open windows. As they observe it from the stairway, the chandelier reels slightly from side to side. Machi latches on to Pakunoda’s waist in alarm, her eyes widening when she feels a chill kiss its way up her spine. She looks behind them to find an empty stairway – only the leftover creaks of the old wood marking their steps.

“Must be the wind,” Pakunoda says. But her hands are shaking against Machi’s own, and the more they step forward to the second floor of the mansion, the more Machi is sure that they’ll be able to find a ghost. Only if they manage not to get lost, or maybe even jump out of a window.

“Yeah. Must be.”

They venture farther up the stairway until they finally step on the next level. This time, they’re greeted by a winding hallway. The turns are flicking left and right, almost like a maze. Pakunoda adjust her flashlight to one of the picture frames attached to the walls.

“Who do you think lived here?” Pakunoda asks, swinging her flashlight around the picture.

“A rich family, no doubt. Must be someone from the eighties.”

They try to identify the person in the photograph, but the photo is far too old and dirty to be fully analyzed. A thick layer of dust is hanging on to the photograph. The windows are narrow but elongated, shifting into a bow at the top corner of the wooden plaster. Machi stares at the small slice of her reflection, but her eyes zoom in on the painting behind her, a choke tied around her throat when she realizes –

Machi swivels around, a scream popping out her lips.

The photograph, once covered with dust when they first saw it, is now dripping wet with blood. The blood sags through the glass, spurting out from the rims of the picture frame and trickling down the maroon carpet floors. As soon as the blood nears Machi’s feet, she begins to tug Pakunoda towards the exit.

But when she clenches her fist, she feels nothing but a nauseating grasp of an empty space.

 

~***~

 

_8:23 p.m. – Halloween Party; ghost-searching_

 

They’ve been separated.

Chrollo can’t recall how it happened, or even understand why it happened in the first place. One moment, they were standing in the middle of the ballroom, their fingers tied together like a knot unwilling to be cut loose. Chrollo can still hear the soft cloud of Hisoka’s laughter on his neck. His eyes were adjusted to the ceiling, watching the chandelier above them swing slightly, as if it was following their movements like a string.

The following second, Chrollo was holding on to Hisoka’s lack of presence, his fingers still searching for whatever Hisoka had left. But he never felt the man move away from him, he never heard the squeak of his footsteps as he exited the ballroom. The more terrifying question is: had he walked out of the ballroom at all? Or was he led away from Chrollo like a ghost?

Now, Chrollo is walking down the stairs. He brushes his fingers against the handrails, weary of those ghost stories saying that ghosts can easily push people down staircases. Chrollo isn’t about to risk it; he has to find Hisoka first and then run out of the building. He’s heard people say things about this mansion: how people who come in groups end up walking alone the next second, about the ghosts following the sounds of their feet like waves crawling out of the sea, and the kids who were trapped here years before, their voices gagged, almost unheard of.

Chrollo finally settles down into the first floor of the mansion. He proceeds to the kitchen, his eyes looming over the mounted cabinets, and the unwashed plates on the sink. This house has been abandoned for nearly a century. The pipes are most likely empty. But the untouched plates intrigue him. The mansion is practically bigger than his whole apartment, so maids and butlers are a must.

But no maid is allowed to leave a whole batch of ceramics unclean – so, what happened to them?

Chrollo’s eyes adjust to the darkness, and he sees something else, something not many people would have noticed.

His hands go over the wall, brushing over something wooden and rough. A doorframe? Chrollo lowers his hand until he clutches something round. A knob – unlocked. Chrollo takes a deep breath and thinks, ignoring the way the cold is sticking to his skin even though the windows are unopened.

Maybe a storage room, or a place where the maids placed the brooms. But Chrollo feels something jitter inside him. It makes his whole body shake, from the tips of his toes to the strands of his hair. His fingers are jiggling the loose chain of the doorknob.

Just as he finally gets a hold of himself, twisting the door to open, he feels hand on his shoulder, making him flinch.

“Chrollo,” Machi says, peering from his shoulder. “Why are you alone?”

Chrollo’s breath loosens from his throat. He lets go of the doorknob and faces Machi, expecting Pakunoda to keep her company. But – his eyes only see her: the tight frown on her lips, the moon pooling her neck, and her eyes, the color of the sky when it’s waking him.

“Why are _you_ alone?” Chrollo checks behind her shoulder. “I thought you were supposed to be with Pakunoda.”

“And I thought _you_ were supposed to be with Hisoka.”

Chrollo sighs, moving away from the tug of the door. They exit the kitchen and enter the living room. The entrance is right there, if they were to take it. But he knows that Hisoka is still in here, taking parts of Chrollo if ever they were to go missing.

“We got separated. I’m assuming that you were as well.”

Machi hooks her arms around herself and glances up the staircase. “We should go find them.”

Chrollo watches her shiver, her lips parting to let out a heavy breath. He feels his hand reaching for her arm, slipping his fingers one by one in the crook of her elbow. Machi doesn’t wince, doesn’t move or breathe. She only lets Chrollo’s fingers dive down her veins, her wrists, until they have found a spot in between the spaces of her fingers, her skin.

She’s about to slither her hand out of his grip, but he tightens her hold on her, their wrists touching each other’s heartbeats.

“Don’t let go,” he says, and he wonders whether he means something completely different.

 

~***~

 

_8:45 p.m. – Halloween Party; ghost-searching_

 

Hisoka has no idea where he is.

He knows where he’s going, but he’s not sure if he’s taking the right steps in getting there. There is one thing he’s sure of, though: the more he’s getting closer to the farthest side of the hall, the colder his skin is, and the hotter his chest is burning. When he finally reaches the master’s bedroom, he nearly falters. His hands are unnaturally shaking, and every nerve in his body feels like a twig.

How is he sure that he’ll discover something he’s always wanted to see?

As he swallows a sinking breath, he finally pushes the door forward, making the entrance groan against the wooden floors of the mansion. It bellows for a second before turning into a tiny squeak, gently hitting the cabinets near the doorway. Hisoka hesitantly steps inside the room, his eyes focusing first on the bed facing the door.

The sheets are dusty, the crimson color starting to fade. There is a pattern engraved into the fabric. Clean stitches of roses are drowning into the sheets, the yarn made of the most exquisite material back in that century. The curtains are flying towards him, stricken by the evening air coming from the open windows.

Hisoka looks at the carpet floors – silk, finely sewn by hand, has never been stepped on other than slippers and bare feet, probably regularly dusted when the owners were still present, rich in –

“What are you doing?”

Hisoka feels himself wince, the blood draining from his cheeks and rushing over to the back of his neck. He clenches his fists to stop himself from darting to the bed and past the window. He veers around to find someone standing in the doorway of the room. He never felt the man’s presence enter, not even a breath, a beat, anything. It almost feels like he’s still alone, as if the man is a ghost.

The man is wearing a black suit, but the fabric has turned mildly gray. Hisoka squints his eyes. It’s not from the age of the suit, not even from dust. If anything, it looks more like it’s coming from a gunfire, smoke, and ash. But the materials used are clearly expensive – also sewn by hand, but with much more precision and care.

Hisoka’s eyes work over the man’s face – long black hair, neatly cut, with bangs straying from the edges of his temples: a clear sign of slight rebellion; pale cheeks, but with a hint of a blush rising on the man’s skin: easily embarrassed, though secretive about it; and finally, black eyes – sullen, empty, as if the man has been sapped completely off his flesh, but Hisoka feels a pang in his ribs as he realizes that he’s never seen anything else like it.

“So?” the man presses, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are you not going to answer me?”

“What’s up with the costume?” Hisoka asks, laughing slightly. “You look like you came from a Halloween party.”

The man doesn’t answer, but his eyes widen at the sound of Hisoka’s laughter. Silence fills the spaces between them like grief.

“Why,” the man says, gritting his teeth, “are you still here?”

Hisoka stares at him, his golden eyes memorizing the veins thinning on the man’s wrists, fingers, skin. The man isn’t scared at him or angry, not even close. No, he’s more . . . surprised, his voice feeding off of disbelief and something else. Hisoka can’t quite put it together, but it’s _there_ , lurking in the way the man is trying to back away from him like he’s made of disease.

The way the man is stepping closer to Hisoka in each passing minute.

Hisoka doesn’t take his eyes off of him when he says, “Who are you? What’s your name?”

He feels the other hesitate before the words curve into the man’s lips. The man finally takes another step, closing the distance in between them. Hisoka has to stop himself from touching him, like doing so is a retrace, a memory he can’t quite place.

“Illumi,” the man says. “Illumi Zoldyck.”  

Hisoka feels his heart clench into a fist. The sound is familiar in Hisoka’s ribs, as if he’s already fit the name into his teeth before he’s ever heard of it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a kudos/review if you like it!


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

 

October 1897

 

 

_11:34 a.m. – Carriage on the way to the Freecs’ residence_

 

Illumi wishes that it would rain.

The skies overhead are brewing with a dreadful sense of patter. The clouds are draining out the light from the sky, inhaling the breath of the sun as they slowly turn dark. Illumi’s eyes are blurring past the buildings enclosing the road, watching the people walk on the sidewalks with their umbrellas curled on top like a teacup. If he closes his eyes, he can almost block out his mother’s voice and listen instead to the chatter outside. He can hear the faint sounds: the horse’s hooves stomping against the cobblestones, its feet pushing away the pebbles; the perky ring of the charms hanging over some of the stores in the city; the hushed laughter of the group of girls covering their mouths with their fans and handkerchiefs; and the beating heart of the city of Kukuroo, the shadows of the chase, the taste of chaste and misery on his throat.

He knows it now: if he were to let his feet guide him, he wouldn’t be able to find home.

The sounds fade out when he feels his mother’s palm rest on his knee. Her long fingers hang on to the fabric of his pants like thin twigs. Illumi feels his words burn like a forest, a snaggletooth practically holing in between his teeth. He turns to his mother and knows that he will not say anything.

“Illumi,” Kikyo chides, her voice nearly snapping the sounds in two. “ _Listen_ to me when I tell you to.” Her fingers tighten against his knee, almost as if she’s ready to wring out what he wants to say. “The Freecs family will be able to help us get through with our plans. You need to impress them.”  

The response is robotic, almost a repeat on his lips. “Yes, mother,” he says.

“Have you read the documents I gave you?”

“Yes, mother.”

Ging Freecs is commonly known as, “The Giver.” As the king of the black market, he’s given money to most of the secret businesses in Kukuroo City. By secret businesses, he means places such as an underground drug deal, a ghost hospital found in the downtown part of the city, among others Illumi hadn’t taken much thought to read. In return, the businesses that owe back to his contributions give him seventy percent of the share in the first year, then forty percent in the following years that the business lives.

As he looks at his mother, frowning out the window as the dark exhales of the rain hollow in on her cheeks, he realizes that she’s nervous. Her fingers are doing a memorized tap on her thigh, the grip on his knees nearly as tight as a bandage. Illumi knows that his mother has always been the one best in negotiations; while his father begins the fight, Kikyo finishes what he’s started.

So when Illumi finds himself staring at the way his mother’s lips are shaped into a nail, he wonders what’s gotten her so scared that the hold she has on him gradually loosens.

 

~***~

_11:43 a.m. – Freecs’ residence: living room_

 

It takes Illumi a few more moments to realize that he’s getting parched. His throat is clicking with dry heat; the tip of his tongue is the bitter aftertaste of tobacco lingering in the air of the room. His nostrils feel like they’re being pinched together by fumes. Illumi resists the urge to cover his mouth with a handkerchief, but when the man in front of him breathes out another tobacco smog from in between his teeth, Illumi has to close his lips and carefully try not to speak.

His father blows another puff of smoke from the cigar. The smoke curls like a ring, both ends about to meet before the smoke disappears. Illumi feels himself watching the smoke rings, counting the seconds before its fingers touch before the whole body comes undone. When the smoke almost meets the shape of his face, he feels his body leaning forward, trying to catch the shallow suck of the breath, the steep fade of the smoke, and the way Illumi can still have traces of what he lost.

“Illumi,” Kikyo says, wrapping a hand over his wrist to force him back against the seat. “You were asked a question.”

“Oh,” Illumi says. His eyes focus on the man in front of him – Ging Freecs. Stubbles dress over his chin, while his hair is growing out of his scalp like an array of palm leaves. His dark skin is a glisten underneath the gray light of the sky, peeking in through the open curtains of the room. The man releases a blow of smoke from the pry of his mouth, and Illumi watches the loop reach for the space separating them before it completely vanishes. “Yes. Pardon me for my rudeness. If I may ask, what was your question, Sir?”

Ging shows Illumi a mindless grin. He sucks in another whiff of cigar before he tells him. “No need to apologize, Mr. Zoldyck. I just wanted to know if you would like some tea. My butler would gladly prepare one for your liking.”

“Oh,” Illumi says again, blinking. “Yes. Tea would be perfect, thank you.”

Ging gestures to the butler standing beside him before returning his attention to the sole purpose of this meeting. Illumi doesn’t bother to keep up with their conversation; he already understands what’s about to happen. His mother is currently talking about the benefits if Ging Freecs were to contribute to their latest business, while his father is listing down the assets of the proposed plan to get everything in order before the plan commences.

Illumi stares at the way his mother talks, the voices muddling inside his head until every single word starts to sound the same. The voices blear together like a wave, hitting his ankles, his knees, his neck, and his head, washing away the letters as if they were static. Illumi’s fingers quiver as he rakes his fingers through his hair, planting it over the armrest when his muscles feel like they’re about to tear.

“Excuse me, Sir,” the butler says, leaning closer to Illumi. His voice showers over Illumi’s thoughts, thrusting away the warping sounds of the room, replaced only by the butler’s exhales – the one thing Illumi is hanging on to. “What kind of tea would you like? You may have anything available in Master Ging’s collection.”

Illumi turns his head to look at the man beside him – and when he does, he finds himself unable to speak. The man’s eyes are raw and golden, like the sun in his palms when he wakes up in the morning. His lips are pursed in gentle perfection, the color of the sky when it’s about to sleep.

“Houjicha it is, then,” the man whispers, his voice lapping over Illumi’s cheek before moving away from him.

Illumi watches him go as he tries to open his lips, but instead his heartbeat is the only thing that breaks open.

 

~***~

 

_12:06 p.m. – Freecs’ residence: kitchen_

 

Hisoka never expected to be an excellent butler. In fact, he is, better than the real ones in the mansion.

But the current movement of his hands is unusually stiff. His fingers are careless as they grab the teacups from the overhead cupboards. He removes the teapot next and settles it over the heater. He pours just enough amount of water into the pot and turns on the embers, watching the flames lick the bottom of the pot before he ventures to find the teabags. Hisoka snatches them near the patches of herbs, nearly knocking the whole thing over before placing them inside the teacup as he waits for the kettle to boil.

Hisoka’s breath hitches as his gaze stays on the walls, the muscles of his arms hardening like a storm. He feels himself thinking back to just one person. Illumi Zoldyck, the future heir of the Zoldyck business, the only legible son able to marry the princess of the Dark Continent, the one man Hisoka never thought would be able to grab his attention. Truthfully, he was different from what Hisoka had expected: he used to see more of a man who knew how to calculate a person just by a look.

But instead, Hisoka sees a boy who’s locked in his own thoughts, a birdcage religion Illumi Zoldyck can’t seem to get out of.

Hisoka shakes his head. He knows what he’s supposed to do here, and the last thing he wants is to get distracted. To steady himself, he walks over to the wine storage, peeking at the names of the wine bottles to check if they have anything he likes. The man pulls out a Vineas Vini from the rack and opens it with the cork. The wine fizzes like seashores before it finally settles back down into the bottle.

He walks back into the main kitchen to find a wineglass in the pantry, but as he glances at the washed plates, he decides against it.

Hisoka tilts his head back as he tips the bottle against his lips, letting the wine sink down the short tube and slide like tide in between his teeth. It tastes a little nutty and sweet, hitting his nose with the smell of pine trees and fresh rain. The wine burns down his throat, leaving a scorched trail from his nose to his lungs. He closes his eyes and feels a weight settle over his stomach.

But there’s something scratching the length of his neck, his chest, his ribs, and every inch of his skin. No matter how hard he tries to swallow, the taste of the wine is still different.

“What are you doing?”

Hisoka whirls around, expecting to find Ging about to catch him stealing. But the person he sees is Illumi Zoldyck. The man’s eyes are crawling from the bottle in Hisoka’s hand to the open sore of his wrists, the exposed skin of his neck, the bloom of his lips, the way Hisoka’s eyes are staring back at him, as if their hearts have found the same beat.

He looks down at his wine bottle and shakes it lightly. “Are you going to tell Master Ging of this incident?”

Illumi doesn’t answer him. He only walks closer to the pantry and leans down to grab a wineglass from the tray. Hisoka sees a glimpse of the skin on Illumi’s lower back where his coat can’t cover. It’s as white as a fleece, the color of winter when it visits in the morning.

“Do you like to stare?”

The man adjusts himself, pushing his coat further down his back. Hisoka sees a trace of a blush on Illumi’s face, appearing for a mere second before it disappears again. Illumi pushes a wineglass towards him. He waits for a moment and finally pours an inch of wine into the glass. Hisoka can feel Illumi watching him, as if he’s drawing stars on his cheeks.

“I thought,” Hisoka murmurs, “you wanted some tea.”

“You were taking too long. I was getting rather tired of waiting.”

Illumi touches the glass to his lips and forces the wine to dribble down his tongue. He goes slowly at first, swallowing a tiny drop. And then, he lifts his hand a little to push the wine further down his mouth. The angle gives Hisoka a good look of the man’s throat – and he sucks in a shuddering breath before Illumi can hear his words wobble.

When he’s finished, his eyes are drawn to the soft glisten of Illumi’s lips, touched by the wine, too tempting for Hisoka to nearly press against his fingertips.

Hisoka leans closer to Illumi’s space, hearing the heft of the man’s breathing when their bodies almost come into place.

“Please,” he whispers, looking at the man’s neck. “Spare me an hour of your time. Mr. Zoldyck.”

 _Or even just a minute,_ Hisoka thinks. _A second. A beat._ _Illumi_.

 

~***~

 

_12:43 p.m. – Freecs residence: hallway_

 

“Your name is Victor.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Illumi’s eyes narrow when the man’s lips part to let out a soft laugh. The man has vibrant strands of red hair, some hanging loose at the sides of his face, curling against his cheeks like vines. His black coat sticks tight to his skin. But what catch his attention the most are the golden frays of the man’s pupils, as if the sun has blessed him with its lips, as if the man loves burning.

The man offers Illumi another amused smile, cracking at the edges of his mouth. “Why don’t you believe me, then?”

“You don’t fit the standards of a Victor,” Illumi answers. He twirls the remaining wine in his glass. “You don’t quite _look_ like a Victor.”

“Have you ever known a Victor?”

“Lots.” Illumi’s lips almost curve into a smile, but every time Hisoka is watching him, he doesn’t want to give the man the gift of satisfaction. “They’re a big bunch. Manly, if I must say. They also have rather thick beards for their thin faces.” That earns another laugh from the man – the more he looks at him, hearing the laughter sprout from his lips and plant into Illumi’s ears, the more he’s certain that the man’s name isn’t even _close_ to what he’s saying.

“You, on the other hand,” Illumi continues, “don’t have a beard. Although, you have a thin face, but also evenly angled.” The man’s lips quirk, itching for another burst of pleased laughter. “You’re not as manly, but more lean. Are you?”

“I don’t know,” Hisoka says. “Am I?”

“You are,” Illumi confirms. “But more than anything, you’re actually quite beautiful.”

The words slip out of his lips before Illumi realizes what he’s saying. Silence fits snugly in between them, making the thunder of Illumi’s heart roar in his ribs. But Hisoka is simply staring at him, his golden eyes stroking the bow curve of Illumi’s lips as if he’s tasted the words, instead. Illumi feels his blood rush to his cheeks, stamping on his skin like a letter.

“I don’t . . .” Illumi releases a shaky breath. “I didn’t . . .”

“Why don’t we dance?”

Illumi blinks at him. “Hmm?”

The man’s smile doesn’t falter as he pushes his hand towards the door, pushing it open. The doors swing backward to showcase the wide berth of the ballroom. The floors are tiled with intricate lines, some crisscrossing, the others spreading like branches in the spring. The ceiling is wreathed with gold, the chandelier on top the exact envision of rococo. Illumi finds himself walking inside the room, his eyes roaming over the paintings attached to the walls as well as the fuming skies behind the comfort of the window.

The man grabs his wineglass away from his grasp and rests it on the nearby table. Then, he closes the distance between them in soft steps. His fingers latch on to Illumi’s palm, finding the right route from his wrists to the spaces in between his fingers, where no one has ever dared to fit. The man’s hand rests on Illumi’s waist, and waits for Illumi to reciprocate.

Illumi’s hand is quivering as he places it on top of the man’s shoulder. His heart almost lurches to his teeth when the man suddenly strides closer towards him. Illumi is painfully aware of the man’s heartbeat – every count and skip, as if he has held it before Illumi has ever touched him. The man’s eyes are teasing him, clouding with something else.

“You’re supposed to move backward,” the man murmurs.

Illumi dabs his tongue over his lips and does as he’s told. The next treads are slow, their feet matching the steps the other is making. Illumi feels himself closing his eyes as the dance becomes more natural. The sounds of their footsteps block the noise outside, but he can still hear the faintest tap of the rain against the windows. The storm is finally brewing, exuding steam as the pitter-patter of the rain shower dawns on them.

But the more he listens to the sound, the more he realizes that his head is laid against the man’s chest, and his ears are catching the man’s heartbeat in his hands. As if this is the last time Illumi will ever meet him again.

“Illumi,” the man whispers. “I thank you for this short hour that you’ve spared for me. But I’m afraid that our time has ran out.”

That causes Illumi’s head to rise up in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“My name,” the man continues, “is Hisoka.” His lips is a flutter over Illumi’s ears, his mouth kissing the lobe before he slowly turns away. “It’s your turn to find me.”

Hisoka then takes a quick step to expand the distance, turning into the direction of the door with a gracious bow. Illumi is about to grab Hisoka by the sleeve of his coat, but he sees his mother standing at the doorframe with his peripheral vision. Her eyes are glaring at him, obviously about to let loose the anger she’s been keeping ever since he left the meeting. He clicks his jaw and forces himself to swallow.

“Mother,” he says. “I’m sorry for my absence. Mr. Freecs’ butler was kind enough to show me his wonderful mansion.”

But Kikyo doesn’t say anything. Her eyes stare into Illumi’s face before taking a brief glance at Hisoka behind him, finally giving the man her recognition. Without thinking, Illumi sidesteps, blocking the man out of her vision. His mother’s eyes snap back towards him like she can’t believe what he’s done, like she can’t believe this little bit of defiance coming from her son.

“How quaint.” She grips her shawl and tightens them around her shoulders. Her lips are pursed as she exits the room, fully expecting Illumi to follow.

“Illumi,” she calls out. “It’s time to go home.”

He looks back at Hisoka one last time. The man has already straightened up, his eyes boring through Illumi’s lips like it has something that he needs.

He inhales Hisoka’s face like a memory – taking in the shape of his lips, the way the strands of his hair are like book pages, and the golden color of his eyes, like the sun when it’s vulnerable at night. Illumi engraves this on his wrists, his skin, and he finally turns around to retrace his mother’s footsteps.

“But why,” he whispers as he leaves, his eyes darting back to the room, “do I feel like I know exactly where I should go?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, friends! I hope you can leave a kudos and a comment for this chapter. 
> 
> I would also like to inform you that this is mainly hisoillu, so there will be no intense love triangles. (I promise.)


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is okay!

Chapter Four

 

November 2015

 

 

_6:06 a.m. – Zoldyck Mansion_

 

Ghosts don’t sleep. Or, at least, Illumi doesn’t.

Instead, he lurks behind the hard plasters of the walls, lingers in the picture frames, the family photos and paintings hung on every corner of the hallways. He pretends that his ribs are made of literal bones, that his skin doesn’t seem transparent when he looks at his palms. He tells himself that he’s always been invisible, even back when he was still a human.

He doesn’t like staying in one place. There isn’t much to _do_ in one place. He has to hop from one room to another in order to occupy himself. Sometimes, he lets every memory he’s remade vanish back into his skin, so that when he takes another look around the mansion, he’ll feel like he’s forgotten everything. But there are things he can’t seem to get rid of, things he can’t seem to swallow down his throat.

Illumi can still recall the way the cold touch of the underground chambers is a harsh nip at his skin. He can still remember the way the atmosphere feels heavy down there, as if every hand, every finger is awfully connected into one dire system. Illumi’s breath shallows in the bridges of his teeth as he thinks about it, feeling his hands make their way to his coat pockets like a way of protection.

He ventures from the dim recesses of the kitchen and climb up the stairs. Dust is piling up on every corner of the room, hiding in between the twirls of the staircase, dancing on the chandelier topping the parlor. As he continues to brush away the dust mopped on the handrails, Illumi’s thoughts run back to last week – to the night Hisoka stepped on the front porch of the Zoldyck Mansion for the first time in centuries.

Illumi hasn’t seen Hisoka in the flesh after what happened. He can only catch glimpses – the flare of his hair as if he’s already set himself on fire, the way his skin looks like the wildest star in the evening, how he always has the urge to scoff when someone makes a wrong deduction, and the way Hisoka holds Illumi’s face in his palms, his fingers vines on his neck, as if Hisoka, from the start, knows where to touch his weaknesses.

That night, Illumi asked Hisoka to visit him again – if he wanted to. He could sense the man hesitating, wondering if he should take the risk of going back into this place without knowing what could happen. But Illumi felt it – how Hisoka knew that his heart would be tugging back into this room out of unnatural desperation.

After all, Illumi still had it with him.

He walks towards the windows of the master’s bedroom. He pushes the curtains to the side to let in the soft glow of sunlight. The morning sun is blooming past the forest mossing the back of the mansion, hitting the height of his nose and cheeks as if the sun is eager to touch him. Illumi feels his hands prying open, reaching closer to the windows.

The sunlight is resting on his palms, as if he knows exactly how to catch every inch of its breath, as if the sun knows exactly how to burn him regardless.

 

~***~

 

_6:30 a.m. – Hisoka residence_

 

It’s rare for him to wake up to a nightmare.

Sweat is beading down his temples, drowning past his chin and neck and down the rumpled fabric of his shirt. His throat is parched to the bone, left only by a bitter residue of dry pills and a sandstorm that has brewed in his teeth. Hisoka tries to twist himself to the side to grab a glass of water, but his hands are taped to the sheets, his fingers latching on to the blanket as if it’s the only way he can breathe.

The heavy structure of his ribs is enough to make him shake. Hisoka isn’t sure whether he’s cold from the previous night air, or if the nightmare is strong enough to rattle him out of his senses. All he knows is that he can still hear the voices in his ears, the sirens blaring past his chest like a furious drumming. His heartbeat quickens as he closes his eyes and recalls the blinding course of light streaming through the windows.

He doesn’t want to be able to remember every detail – but it’s _there_. Every vivid second he’s placing himself back in his dream feels like pasting a clog in his throat where oxygen used to be. Hisoka swallows it down in an unstable breath, and then he finally begins to curl towards the drawer next to his bed. His hand catches the phone in slight relief. He slides open the lock and calls the first person on his speed dial list.

Hisoka places the phone next to his ears as it rings. _One, two, three, four_ – five seconds pass before Hisoka can hear the soft wave of Chrollo’s voice wash over his cheek. His heart loosens up for a moment before it tightens back again, like it doesn’t want anything else to happen.

“Hello?” Chrollo murmurs against the phone, and a tiny grumble follows. “Hisoka? Why are you calling me so early?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“A nightmare?” Chrollo repeats. Hisoka can hear the gentle croak of the bed as Chrollo moves, sitting up against the headboard with his chest still buried beneath the pillows. The man slept at exactly 2:34 this morning, probably staying up to finish the book he’s been reading for the week.

“Hisoka,” Chrollo chides. “Stop thinking about what I did last night and focus.”

Hisoka feels himself laugh, a light ache passing over his ribs. “How did you know I was thinking about that?”

“Because I know you,” Chrollo answers, “and I know that you don’t have nightmares. Not after . . .”

A pause follows Chrollo’s unfinished sentence – and almost immediately, another flash plows across Hisoka’s vision, hushed and panicked voices wringing through his ears and head, the sudden pain striking him directly on the temples before Hisoka can think to stop it.

“Hisoka –?”

He feels his hand release the phone back unto the bed, the screen still lighting up with Chrollo’s name printed.

“ _Hisoka_ , what happened?”

He wants to answer, but he closes his eyes instead in an agonizing swallow, gritting his teeth as he curls himself into a ball. His hands are fisted against his temples, the other banging against his head to stop the dreams from exploding.

But as his mouth breaks open, he can only think of one name, forgetting everyone else but the ghost he’s been thinking of – as if Illumi is the only one who can erase his thoughts.

 

~***~

 

_8:35 a.m. – Captain’s Café_

 

_Blog entry #74_

_November 2015_

_To Bedevil_

_We had taken the first step towards the mansion. Everyone knew what would happen if ever we were to disappear within the creaking gates, the placid corners of the front porch, and the spider webs tangling beneath our feet. I looked at Hisoka for confirmation, wondering if he was curious enough to ignore the howls we heard as soon as we opened the door. But I knew, without asking him, that he was more than willing to risk it._

_Our eyes ventured from the light mahogany floors to the unsteady roll of the ceiling. We felt something, even back then. We couldn’t admit that it was a ghost, to be exact, but it was something different and oddly meticulous. The ghost was watching us, daring us to come forward. I was intrigued; I felt my heart bursting to my knees. Everything about the place was a warning: do not come closer, you will not find what you seek._

_Still, we walked through the mansion doors and began our search._

_I didn’t know what Hisoka had in mind – he was always interested in finding something he hadn’t thought of before, but I wanted caution. I wanted to know what to expect from the mansion before we decided to march farther. But Hisoka loved the unknown, the untouched treasures, the surprise that came with not knowing._

_Did it scare me? Maybe a little._

_But Hisoka’s presence kept me ground. He led us into the kitchen first, since it was the first connecting room we saw when we went into the living room. The furniture was covered in filth and rust; utensils were obviously ancient. This mansion had been the biggest in the city, during that century. But two hundred years is a long time. The house had gotten its own wrinkles and bygone._

_Hisoka turned to me, his face contorted in confusion. I knew that look – it meant that something had caught his attention. It meant that the mansion had drawn him in, not immediately perhaps, but gradually, with strong ease._

_But while he was awfully captivated by the eerie atmosphere, I felt my discomfort strengthen. Hisoka had amazing intuition, but when he’s incredibly absorbed, it’s near impossible to get his attention. So instead, I followed him, my uneasiness going stronger by the second._

_It wasn’t until I felt him disappear from my side that my heart panicked, wondering where he could possibly go to when he had been right there – in that second._

_I –_

 

~***~

 

_8:53 a.m. – Captain’s Café_

 

 

“Sir, here’s your coffee.”

Chrollo’s eyes are still directed towards the screen of his laptop. His fingers have stopped moving, the cursor blinking at him in slight mockery. He purses his lips at the interruption, placing his palms on top of the keyboard like it’s about to explode. “I didn’t order any – ” His eyes widen in slight surprise when he sees Machi leaning over him, holding a coffee cup in one hand, and his wrist in the other. Her fingers are like loose strings over his skin, but it binds him like a promise.

 _God_ , Chrollo thinks to himself, resisting the urge to unclasp her fingers from his wrist, _what am I even thinking?_

“Your coffee mug is empty,” Machi says, pointing to the drying taste of the coffee lying on the rim. “You must not have noticed.”

“No,” Chrollo agrees. “I must not have. Thank you.”

He accepts Machi’s offer, taking the coffee she ordered from her palms and into his cold hands. He lets the steam burn through his skin, jittering through his muscles before he slowly takes a sip. It’s been already pampered with cream and sugar – just the right amount, the way he likes it. Chrollo watches Machi take a seat the opposite of his, her hair cascading down her shoulders, the ends spilling over the table like shells.

“It’s rude of you to stare.”

Chrollo clears his throat and places the mug next to his laptop, shutting it closed. “Your hair is longer now.”

Machi looks down at the strands curling over her breastbone. Chrollo clenches his fist, licking his lips as he tries not to lean over and tuck Machi’s hair behind her ear. But Machi does it for him, brushing the stray hair away from her face and tying it back into her head. Chrollo finds himself staring at her wrists, her fingers, her cheeks, before he finally forces himself to look away.

Dammit. He shouldn’t have closed his laptop. He should have just continued typing and let Machi leave.

“Should I cut it?” Machi asks. Shorter strands are dipping on her temples and down her face. She grabs the splits of her hair in between her fingers. “It’s getting harder to brush with this kind of length. Do you think I’ll look a little bit different?”

Chrollo tries to imagine it – short hair clipping over her jawline, bangs either split or gathered in the middle, the winter of her eyes teeming through the pink color. He – regrettably – feels his heartbeat quicken in his ribs, as if the simple thought of Machi is enough to make his entire body ungrounded.

“What do I think?” Chrollo says. He grips his coffee mug with both of his hands, ignoring the burn pushing through his skin. “I think you should just go, if this is our conversation.”

Machi looks up at him, her lips about to hang open to speak – but then, she diverts her gaze into the busy street of the city. “Yeah,” she says, her voice surprisingly soft. “You’re right. I’ll see you later, Chrollo.”

She doesn’t look back at him as she leaves, and Chrollo can’t push himself out of the booth to follow her out into the street. He expects his heartbeat to die down now that he’s away from Machi’s presence, but instead it only heightens, as if Chrollo is paralyzed now that she has left.

 

~***~

 

 

Everyone in the Troupe loves Machi’s cooking.

Well, everyone but Bonolenov, but only because he doesn’t exactly like sweets. Although, the person who loves her cooking the most, is Phinks. Probably because he has the biggest sweet tooth out of everyone else, and Machi is the only person in the Troupe who can actually cook something decent. Phinks can still remember the time he practically ravaged Machi’s salted caramel six-layer chocolate cake – and he ended up having to go the dentist four times a week, just to get rid of his cavities.

But of course, that doesn’t stop him from getting addicted again.

The Troupe is gathered around the living room like they’re having a picnic. They’re recycling the food they didn’t get to finish the week before, back when they were ghost hunting in the Zoldyck Mansion. Beers are opened at their side, the stench rising in the closed space of the room. Phinks ignores it and chugs the rest of his bottle like a tank, swallowing every drop down his throat.

He tips his head back until the sting of the alcohol sizzles.

Beside him, Feitan is holding a plate of blueberry cheesecake on his palm. A fork is bitten in between his teeth. “So,” he says, his voice slightly muffled, “what made you want to have a little picnic?”

Phinks blinks at him, and then he glances over at Machi, her head ducked with her fingernails digging into the carpet. He’s seen her every other day of the week. They occasionally watch the movies together; sometimes they even have dinner when they’re bored. But this is the first time in _months_ that he’s seen her look so down. Something must have happened.

With Chrollo, no doubt.

Machi only shrugs in reply, picking at the loose thread of the carpet. “The food was getting molds, so I thought I’d just let you eat them.”

Feitan frowns at the cheesecake, inspecting it. “How reassuring.”

Machi shrugs again, tugging the thread out of the carpet and letting it stretch. The corners of her lips are dipped, her knuckles white from the pressure placed against the fabric of her shirt. She lets go of the thread and curls her legs underneath her thighs, and then she stands up from the carpet and walk into the kitchen without saying anything.

“Problems with Chrollo again?” Feitan asks, watching her leave. He glances at the cheesecake with furrowed eyebrows.

“Probably,” Phinks answers. He clasps his fingers over Feitan’s wrist and directs the fork towards his open lips. Slowly, he takes a bite, dragging the cake into the cavern of his mouth. “She’s always been admiring him from afar.”

Feitan’s eyes are gazing at his lips, and he uses the pad of his thumb to brush away the crumbs. Phinks feels himself freeze at the exact moment Feitan realizes what he’s done. He scowls at Phinks in great displeasure, as if Phinks is the one who’s made a mistake, pushing the fork into the man’s cheek.

“Well,” he says, turning away. “Who doesn’t?”

 

~***~

 

_2:09 p.m. – Zoldyck Mansion_

 

He doesn’t understand how he knows exactly which way he should go.

Hisoka has only been here once before, but he can remember every curve, every hallway, every direction. Still, his feet are softly making their way into the back garden. He steps out into the open, the sun sprinkling its light into the grass like beads. He lets the sun sink into his cheeks, the warm glow seeping into his skin until he has to block the light from his vision.

The back garden is springing with flowers – Amaranthus are hanging over patches of grass like garlands; Gladiolus are blooming past him, their colors as vibrant as the afternoon breath; Curly Willows are fragile, the tips of his fingers barely making contact; Pear Blossoms look like the color of Illumi’s skin when Hisoka first met him, like ivory, like real flesh.

“You’re here.”

Hisoka turns around to find Illumi Zoldyck staring at him, the previous color of his unlit eyes now different. The sun is hitting him directly on the skin, as if he’s absorbing every strike of heat until the sun has literally burned him. Hisoka almost wants to touch him, to feel his hands, his wrists, and his veins – just to check if he’s really there. Illumi draws closer, narrowing the distance between them in tiny angles.

“You seem surprised,” Hisoka breathes out. “You thought I wouldn’t come.”

“Who would have?” Illumi lets out an airy laugh. He looks around the garden, and Hisoka takes a brief glimpse of his bare throat, the smooth underside of Illumi’s jaw. The man – the _ghost_ – turns back to him with curious eyes. “You haven’t run away. Why?”

“Should I?” Hisoka answers. This time, he’s the one who closes in the distance. They’re almost touching now; he can raise his arm and touch Illumi’s chest. He can almost feel his heartbeat, as if it still exists. “Do you want me to?”

Illumi’s lips threaten a tiny curve of a smile, like he’s not sure whether to give Hisoka the pleasure of a sight. Hisoka can feel his heart pounding in his ribs, making a noise right through his ears. His whole body is vibrating, like it wants to run away even though he can’t move a single muscle inside him.

“No,” Illumi finally says. “I don’t.”

Hisoka licks his lips, and he lifts his arm forward. Illumi stares at him before doing the same, their fingers nearly pulling towards each other like a magnet. Their fingers are inching forward, the tips dancing in between the distance. It feels like a game, now that Hisoka thinks about it.

“Okay,” Hisoka says, chest constricted. “Okay.”

No matter how small the distance is between them, no matter how close they are to touching, it feels like they can never come together entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, friend! Please leave a kudos/comment if you like it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you sooooo much for reading! Please leave a comment/review, and a kudos if you want to!


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